


Poems, Vol. 1

by BH (cae_ru_lea)



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23202781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cae_ru_lea/pseuds/BH
Summary: Volume One of a poetry project I have started
Kudos: 1





	1. Preface

This is a collection of poetry that I have written and accumulated over the last 12 months or so. I would like to express my gratitude towards my peers that have read some of my works and have supported me, or have been an inspiration in some way, so I give my thanks to Harper, María, Autumn, Harrison, Alex, Leah, Yui, Cliff, and a special thanks to Holly, a fellow young poet who has provided an incredible amount of support and praise for my poetry. Without your support, inspiration and encouragement I would not be where I am right now.

I’d like to make a brief note on the nature of my works. The majority of my poems are of a sensitive nature. This is due to the fact that poetry has been a way for me to express some of the feelings I have that I struggle to express in other mediums, and because of this a few poems are in need of a Trigger Warning. There is violent, gory description of varying severity, allusion to self-harm, suicide, drug use, emotional and physical abuse and gender dysphoria. If you are suffering from mental health issues, please contact a GP or speak to somebody you trust. If you believe you are a victim or neglect or abuse, please speak to somebody you trust, or call a hotline.  
SUICIDE CRISIS PHONE NUMBERS:  
USA: 1-800-784-2433  
1-800-273-8255  
211 (or visit 211.org)  
911 - for emergency  
UK: 116 123  
0800 068 4141 - Papyrus, for people under 35  
0800 1111 - Childline, for people under 19  
999 - for emergency  
JP: 03-5774-0992  
110 or 119 - for emergency  
ES: 717 003 717  
112 - for emergency


	2. Initio

The seraph, azuriel  
engulfed in dancing cerulean flames  
a tempestuous vortex, infernal, chaotic  
tempted by Aphrodite, by Asmodeus  
cherubim, thrones, archangels; witnesses, powerless  
unable to save the angel.  
The Burning One descends  
perfectly sculpted form consumed by raging blue  
left arm raised, face contorted.

Graceful fall from grace;  
plummeting into an abyss, a void.  
inanis. pandæmonium. hell.

unconscious  
porcelain skin, torn from the angelic form  
glowing feathered wings, all six, singed, broken  
pure white hair, stained dirty, bloody  
delicate halo, shattered, shrapnel piercing ripped flesh  
æthereal beauty, brutally mutilated  
pain, immense pain, yet hope lingers  
on the event horizon of eden  
the old god's distorted grin  
the old god's malicious laugh

The beaten form of the Burning One  
pierces through the human world  
and falls further...

A seraph no more;  
bright cobalt flames diminish  
charcoal clouds obscure the æther  
bright cobalt eyes awaken  
charcoal wings spread, beating, ascending,  
deep blue horns glowing in the fiery underworld.

Reborn from the ashes of the fallen seraph:  
archfiend. horned beast. demon.  
good night, azuriel.


	3. My Box

grimy glass panes with 

rotting wooden borders

form a large clear box

that i keep on a shelf.

tick...

the box is never empty

but its contents aren’t 

always too clear either.

sometimes the box holds

a thick chunk of meat

tock... 

that oozes with blood

and pulses like its a

live, beating heart.

often the box holds a 

cloud of smoke, both

pink and grey in colour

tick...

along with a pale oily

liquid sloshing around

at the cube's base.

occasionally the box

contains a dead wolf

decaying and infected

tock... 

with writhing maggots

and cream-white spores

extending from where

its eyes once were.

in a rare circumstance

the box contains thirteen

floating orbs, circling

in a clockwise fashion

around two interlocked

tick...

rings made of steel

that happen to be spinning

in the opposite direction.

but it seems, as of late,

that more often than not

the box is almost empty

except for a single

tock... 

brilliant cut emerald

and a pendulum with 

the letter 'Z' carved

into the shiny brass.

this pendulum swings

half as quickly as an

ordinary pendulum

as if time itself is

being distorted, but

tick...

it’s still clear that

there will never be

enough time for me to

confess my sins.

one day i’ll see her

wearing the emerald

around her neck.

maybe then i would

tock… 

be able to talk about

the things that i

keep in my box

and the things that

my box keeps me in.

i hope she doesn’t bring

a baseball bat with her.

my box is already cracked

and worn at the edges

tick.

and i don’t really enjoy

when the glass makes me

bleed...


	4. Carcinogenic Institutionalisation

it smells cold

like a damp concrete

bunker.

sand has been pouring from her ears

for weeks now. 

they say it’ll stop when

the time shifts.

until then, hungry ghosts

eat away at her fingertips

and her golden eyes 

glaze over and fade to grey.

you smell cold

like a quarantined room

dimly lit a sterile blue

with a solitary table

dripping with blood.

why will my mind never

be clean? your disease sticks to

me

against my will, and i can’t

fucking shake you off.

oh well.

at least you’re dead now.


	5. Blowtorch

pull my ribs open

and bathe in the 

thick gory masses of 

my love. 

let me sink my teeth 

into your supple skin 

spilling your gorgeous 

crimson vitality 

all over the rotting wood. 

burn my fucking brain out 

until my gargled screams 

deafen us both. 

que el cielo exista, aunque nuestro lugar sea el infierno 

all you had to do was 

pull the trigger. 

i have been submerged in 

your vitriolic tears 

for weeks and weeks 

and i'm starting to smell 

like burning metal. 

stitch me shut after 

you collect my organs 

and put them all in 

little glass jars.

[VIDEO](https://youtu.be/MGOpoputgQo)


End file.
